


My roar is twice as fierce

by littleoctopushead



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Gen, Internalized Misogyny, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 07:30:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleoctopushead/pseuds/littleoctopushead
Summary: The realm breathed a sigh of relief when Queen Cersei had a son four long years after the birth of her daughter. Now a maiden grown and flowered, Jocelyn Baratheon won't settle for anything less than the Seven Kingdoms.A scene from Fem!Joff's world.





	My roar is twice as fierce

**Author's Note:**

> Very much inspired by [this lovely gifset.](https://sansalayned.tumblr.com/post/128498731380/cersei-lannisters-children-genderswap)

The harsh beat of the midday sun had passed and the afternoon was settled cool and fine. As such it was deemed appropriate that the eldest princess and her ladies would ride out to hawk for a time as they waited to greet the king and his party as they returned from the hunt.

Jocelyn had not been permitted to join the hunt and never had been though she wore fine hunting greens all the same. She knew her father would overturn her mother’s constraints soon enough, once she showed him her own abilities with bloodsport. After all, she was a woman flowered now and not to be kept in the nursery with her sister. It was her brother who belonged there with Tya the baby, but instead he was permitted where his elder was not.

She rode out with her ladies to the edge of the kingswood on her palfrey, accompanied by two knights of the kingsguard and a few other courtiers eager to curry favor with the king, princess, or heir. The Hound kept watch with heavy grey eyes, his ruin of a face towering above them all, though he hardly counted. Some of her ladies were frightened of him, but not Jocelyn. She was Robert Baratheon’s eldest daughter and _rightful_ heir to the Iron Throne. Men were not hers to fear, but to command.

Her dog and the guards were not there to hawk but all of her ladies and a few members of the court rode with birds at their wrists and shoulders. Alysanne Lefford, heir to Golden Tooth, was as green as summer grass and would not stop fidgeting with her merlin, while Jalabhar Xho’s bird was an even bigger mess of multicolored feathers than he was. Jocelyn would have snapped at Alysanne and demanded the Islander's removal for disturbing the scene if she wasn’t determined to keep a pleasant face. Her cousins, a pair of Lannister sisters, at least made a pretty picture, with their twin goshawks as alike as Cerenna and Myrielle were different.

An elegant scene indeed, but Jocelyn still outshone them all. A magnificent eagle was perched on her wrist, a delicate hood of crimson and gold covering its head so it would not be distracted before the hunt began. A name day gift from her mother’s uncle Kevan, procured through House Swyft of which he’d married into. Jocelyn cared not for her grandfather’s lackey nor his homely wife, but the creature was born to be hers. 

Her newest lady-in-waiting, Joanna Swyft, had both delivered the bird and written the pretty note of thanks for it on Jocelyn’s behalf while the princess herself took to her new prize. The girl had been the perfect messenger from a house that prided themselves on breeding western birds; she looked half a hawk herself with that nose of hers. Jocelyn smirked to herself at her cleverness from the head of the entourage, though of course it was above her to speak such taunts aloud.

Their horses trotted several paces into the woods until they came upon a small clearing where hunting parties were known to rest briefly with their spoils before returning to the Red Keep. This was where they would release their birds. The party began to spread out, though they were all careful not to ride directly ahead of the princess, picking positions and carefully removing the hoods from the heads of their birds. There was no horn, as it was not a full hunt, so instead Jocelyn herself pulled out a pretty little flute from a pouch in her cloak. An instrument of pure gold, with twining vines etched into the side. She lifted it to her lips to blow through and a shrieking note subsequently pierced through the lifeless afternoon air.

The birds took off with the sound of the flute, rising high into the cloudless sky to scour the woods below for prey. Jests are made behind her, coin passed on bets for which would prevail and which would flounder. Her ladies glanced at their birds, corrected their skirts from their saddles, and listened for the most interesting gossip. Jocelyn’s eyes did not leave her eagle.

It soared much, much higher than the rest, and lingered in the air for longer too. Squeaks from voles, squirrels, and lesser birds rang through the air as prey was caught and retrieved, until there were only two birds still hunting. One was Jocelyn’s eagle.

The other was a young hawk, perhaps halfway through its youth, tracking a rabbit. The prey was hiding under a section of underbrush, quivering in place before it suddenly lost its nerve and tried to flee. At once the hawk dove for it, claws extended for the kill.

Jocelyn’s eagle was upon the hawk just as it reached its prey. There was a scuffle for but an instant. The eagle outweighed the little hawk in every way, and found no trouble in stealing the dying blow and scooping the prize up in one fell swoop. Jocelyn beamed, beside herself with such a success. She held out her arm for the eagle to return to as the rest of the party clapped and whooped for her victory.

The eagle’s talons were sharp where they clutched her arm, but a lioness feels no pain. Jocelyn patted the eagle affectionately on the head for its work, mindful of all the eyes on her. The large emerald ring worn over her hunting gloves accidentally cuffed the bird near the eye when she did, and the thing squawked a little around the mouthful of rabbit. Jocelyn paid it no mind, her attention caught by that little hawk once more, gliding past her and back to its master.

The hawk landed steadily on the arm of a girl dressed in a cloak of drab brown embroidered with rose colored thread. Under candlelight her red hair might’ve shone, but in the forest Jocelyn thought it looked plain and boring tied back into two thick braids instead of the elaborate hairstyles her ladies from the Westerlands favored. She knew this girl as the last and least of her ladies, and found it fitting that her eagle had all but crushed Alynne Connington’s hawk, a reflection of the difference in station of their mistresses. Alynne was sent to King’s Landing as a consolation after the Conningtons lost almost everything for siding with the rebels too late. Jocelyn already planned to dump the girl on Tya when she flowered and established her own little household, though that wouldn’t be for years yet. 

Cerenna would have sent her a knowing look for such a display, Alysanne a toothy smile in the spirit of friendly competition. The Connington girl didn’t even deign to look at her lady as she attended to her hawk. There were points of color high in her cheeks and her breathing was unsteady, but she kept her eyes on her bird. It prickled at Jocelyn. She wanted some tears, whether of sorrow or fury, or a venomous glare across the clearing, promising revenge. The Red Keep had been boring lately, and she liked nothing more than a bit of spirit to stomp out. 

Before Jocelyn got the chance to throw out a challenge or clever barb, a hunting horn bellowed from deeper in the forest. She started and turned her horse with one hand, still balancing her eagle on the other and annoyed, and started shouting orders.

The king’s hunting party crashed into the clearing scarcely a minute after Jocelyn had coordinated her foolish retinue into shape. She straightened at once and held her eagle higher so her father might see her prize. 

The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms could not be contained by any mere mount, so her father had rode his massive warhorse on the hunt, calling it to heel when he spotted his daughter’s party ahead. He wore a handsome doublet embroidered with golden stage all across it in the same shade of green as Jocelyn’s hunting attire. He was breathing heavily from the exertion of the last two days of hunting as his eyes roamed over his daughter and her companions. 

Jocelyn’s ladies knew well that if she caught any of them making sow’s eyes at her father they would find themselves at the end of knife or crossbow depending on her mood. The rest of the king’s men, however, were fair game. Her uncle Renly was often used as a dupe for the king in his youth, though Jocelyn thought he came out worse in the comparison, lacking the obvious strength his brother had used to win the war. Ser Barristan Selmy was past his prime, taking all the fun out of tempting a kingsguard. Her father’s squires were yet more Lannister cousins. Cousin Tyrek held the king’s wineskin, he was of an age with her but seemed younger from his desperation for womanly attention. Lancel looked twice as manly and handsome by his side, though Jocelyn had no taste for him since the whispers from Casterly Rock started. Lothor Brune was strong but not handsome. Ser Dontos was fat and drunk. 

The prince rode next to the king.

King Robert had left little of himself in his children, including his only son as Myrcelle had the blonde curls and emerald green eyes of all the queen’s children. He was still half a child but it was plain to see he was not growing into the one man army of his father. They said Robert Baratheon weighed more at birth than Rhaegar Targaryen had at ten. 

Sometimes, if you squinted and dreamed, you could see traces between the two. Myrcelle mirrored his father’s position on the horse, sitting far forward with shoulders back. The pride was evident in his every breath, satisfaction at being allowed on the hunt, flush with victory for whatever petty animal he had chased down. 

At birth they called him the stag prince, to Queen Cersei’s unending annoyance. He was sometimes compared to Renly who had that slimmer build and eyes that leaned more green than blue when he wore the Highgarden silks he favored so. It would not be long before he was pushed into the training grounds and given his first warhammer. Even with the lion splitting his arms everyone will see him as Robert Baratheon’s only son and heir.

 _Would that they made such comparisons of me._ Jocelyn thought bitterly. _I am twice the man that runt will ever be. They call me Lord Tywin with teats but what if it? They’d never call him Lady Cersei with a cock._

She had been a little girl when her brother was born, barely four. She used to sneak into the nursery to look at the treasured prince, to pinch him until he cried. The Queen nursed her son herself so there was no wetnurse to shoo her off, only a maid who snored in the next room while the celebrations went on for days. Jocelyn had delighted in seeing how the imprints of her little fingernails began to leave marks on the boy, ones that faded the first time but lingered the more she came back. Queen Cersei had never looked upon her daughter with such shock, such sudden and intense repulsion when she caught her at it. Afterwards she was never allowed to be alone with her brother again.

“Father!” Jocelyn called, as brightly as she knew how. King Robert liked his children merry. She spared a nod of acknowledgement, never deference, to Myrcelle. “Brother.”

“I see you hunted well, daughter.” The king grunted with approval toward her eagle, who cocked its head at the noise. “No small task to wrangle a bird of that size.”

Before Jocelyn could smile and describe her hunt for him, he continued, “But you should’ve seen your brother today! Fast as lightning, I tell you, without his eyes we’d never have tracked down that white hart I’ve been wanting, damn near ran it over!” On one of the horses behind him she could see a long white figure slumped over a horse. The king slapped his son on the back with a meaty palm, who was expecting it and had braced himself. He’d been knocked off his horse once or twice before from such a blow. 

Myrcelle righted himself and flushed like a girl. Sunlight glittered off his red and gold surcoat where stag and lion were divided. “You should join us next time, Joce.”

Jocelyn looked down at him. “I’d never be satisfied with the mere chase of some _fawn_ , dear brother. It’s the skin of a boar or nothing for me.”

The king guffawed. “A boar! Ha! D’you know the last time a princess ran through these woods, girl? ‘Course those were the days of the outlaws, of the Kingswood Brotherhood. Would that I was there to split that Smiling knight in two. I know about battling madmen, oh yes indeed...”

Her mother had told her a thing or two about that last princess. A girl of Dorne, yet second born, not like Cersei and Jocelyn. Not made for ruling. _That is what happens to unfit princesses._ The queen had told her. _To those who overreach themselves._

 _Don’t worry mother,_ Jocelyn thought to herself, then and now. _I cannot overreach for what is mine._

Ser Dontos was humming the tune of some old song, leaning sideways on his horse. Uncle Renly glanced back at their spoils and cleared his throat. “Might we reminisce on our way back to the castle, your grace? We wouldn’t want our kills to catch flies.”

Robert ignored him, turning instead to Ser Barriston. “You were there, weren’t you? Ever cross swords with the Smiling Knight?”

“For a moment, perhaps.” The old knight answered honestly. “My focus was on the leader, Simon-.”

The king waved him off, disappointed. “Aye, Toyne, I remember. First Symon Hollard then Simon Toyne, you had a type, Selmy. Mayhaps the Kingslayer would tell the story, though he’d rather be locked up with the women than hunt with the men.” He snorted. Renly sighed, used to his brother’s ways.

Jocelyn’s eagle was getting restless, squawking and digging its talons deeper into her arm until her patience ran thin. She shook the creature off of her roughly, paying no attention as it caught itself and flew somewhere close by to wait instead, as it had been trained. 

The king’s gaze was back on her and she straightened. “But you want to join the hunt, eh? Well I’d say it’s about time. No daughter of mine should be shut away in a tower all day. Should be a horsewoman, running in the grass. Good to feel the wind in your hair, isn’t that right?”

“Oh, yes Father.” Jocelyn’s heart soared. She was already dreaming of future hunts at his side, impressing him with her skills of bow and crossbow. She cursed her lack of sword or axe, but no matter. Perhaps she _would_ kill a boar, and why shouldn’t she? Then all of them would see that she had what it took to rule with an iron fist, to kill instead of chase like her mealy-mouthed brother…

So lost was she in her daydreams that she had not yet noticed what had become of her eagle. Slowly she noticed that Tyrek was nudging Lancel and pointing to something, that Alysanne was covering her mouth in shock. Jocelyn turned her head and caught sight of her eagle just as the first _riiiiip_ reached her ears. It had forgotten itself without her hand to guide it and begun to ravage the rabbit it had caught. She could only stare as it tore into the creature with the same savagrey as a vulture. 

For a span of heartbeats everyone was silent. Then she heard a high, careless girl’s laugh from behind her, and they all erupted into giggles and chuckles and gawking. 

The king was loudest of all. “Turns out that’s no hunting bird after all! Kevan would’ve known that if he spent half as much time in the trees as he did shut away bookkeeping in the Rock. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been fool enough to send it to you.” Shaking his head and laughing still, the king rode forth and his court followed. Uncle Renly barely even glanced at her as he followed his brother, but Lancel tried to send her a moony look as he rode past. She stared back at him with such venom that he quailed and didn’t stop, his eyes as round as coins.

Myrcelle almost stayed behind. He rode close to his elder sister and opened his mouth as though to say something. He stilled at the look she gave him, a thousand times worse than what she spared for Lancel. Fire boiled in her belly and lava crawled up her throat, if only she could’ve spit it at him. He stared back at her, unshaken and curious, before shrugging and riding away.

Jocelyn was shock still, the heat in her face beginning to draw beads of sweat to her forehead. Her dog remained and so did her ladies, who tittered and watched anxiously. She’d whipped them into shape years ago and they knew the penalty for laughing at her. _No one_ laughed at her. 

Lady Cerenna rode forth and began to circle around her on her horse. “King Robert loves to laugh almost as much as he loves to hunt, doesn’t he?” She said. “He was hunting the day you were born, princess, in these very woods. Do you remember, sister?”

“No,” said Myrielle, meek as a mouse and twice as safe enshrouded amongst the rest of Jocelyn’s ladies. “How could I? I couldn’t have been more than two.”

“Well I was six and still remember perfectly. The Queen had declared for her whole pregnancy that her son would be named Joffrey for the first Andal king of the Rock. You can imagine how she felt when _you_ popped out instead. Hale and hearty and perfect, except between the legs. She named you for Joffrey’s queen instead, the Lannister girl who gave him his name and throne in the first place. Though you’re no Lannister at all, are you? Not until you marry Lancel like Lord Tywin wants.”

“Shut your mouth.” Jocelyn spat. “Shut your mouth, you bitch, I’ll string you up outside Maegor’s holdfast to rot while the birds peck out your eyes and your-“

Cerenna continued over her royal cousin’s threats. “Robert was hunting during the whole thing and when he came back he was perfectly pleased with a bonny little daughter, even while the realm grieved for a son. And his wife had chosen such a traditional Baratheon name to make up for the Lannister looks! For the queen certainly had not cared to study Baratheon names and whether they overlapped with Lannister ones. Robert had roared at Cersei’s face when she realized and by then it was too late to change it and you were stuck. Sometimes they said he might’ve married you to Stannis, to consolidate the claims, had good Prince Myrcelle not appeared four years later.”

Myrielle was chewing her lip so hard it was like to bleed and Alysanne’s eyes were flitting from Jocelyn to Cerenna as though watching a joust. The Swyft girl was plainly bewildered, her aunt not having prepared her properly to serve Cersei Lannister’s daughter.

One of them dared to laugh. It was the same reedy little laugh from earlier. Jocelyn whipped her head around to find Alynne Connington as cheerful as a songbird. Oh she’d have her _tongue_ for that. Jocelyn sneered and almost made towards her, but Cerenna was in the way, just as jolly.

“Lord Tywin bids me to remind you to be grateful he’s considering marrying you to Lancel. Then you’ll be a true Lannister and out of everyone’s way. Won’t that be wonderful?”

“Leave me.” Jocelyn growled. “Get _out!”_ She’d have done worse, _much_ worse, but Cerenna was under her grandfather’s protection and she’d already suffered the consequences when the last one had gone missing.

Her stupid hens hesitated, looking to Cerenna, the eldest, for guidance. “Come along girls,” Her cousin called, “We’re bidden back to the castle before eventide. I’m sure the princess is _horsewoman_ enough to find her way without us.” They hesitated a moment longer, then finally turned their horses away and galloped off.

Only the Hound remained. He had not said a thing all afternoon, preferring to speak only when spoken to when encased amongst her ladies and courtiers. Jocelyn had almost forgotten he was there, though of course he always was.

Jocelyn watched her ladies disappear through the brush. “Cerenna’s twenty now, with no husband in sight.” She grumbled, “I bet Grandfather took her for himself to guarantee her to do his bidding, what do you think? Who else would have her, an old maid with a stupid mouth aching for an armored first through it.”

“Lord Tywin wouldn’t like to hear that.” The Hound’s tone was flat and disappointing as though her vicious words had no impact on him.

“Why should I care what he thinks? He has no command over me.” 

The Hound said nothing. She’d forbidden him his famed helm for her outing and in the sunlight that trickled in through the trees his burns were on full display. She calmed for a moment, observing them, fascinated. His flesh was so burned he had no lips on the left side, nor could he grow a beard, as was fashionable after her father, to cover some of his deformity. What must’ve been done to get such a fantastic result?

As a child she’d devised a game that involved throwing small objects at him to try and get them to hit the terrible craters and pockmarks scattered across his cheek and forehead. Her aim was atrocious though, not like now, and without a quick victory she’d given up after two tries. Other children were frightened of him, but he’d been by her mother’s side so long she was used to him before she could talk. With him by her side she always looked twice as radiant, a perfect princess. Perhaps _too_ perfect, Jocelyn thought in hindsight, too soft, too womanly. She’d have to rectify that somehow. 

The eagle squawked, disturbing her train of thought. She scowled at it fiercely. It sat with the now decimated remains of the rabbit on the forest floor, content with its meal but still too well trained to fly off.

“That hunting master did a piss poor job with this one,” The Hound rasped. “The Swyft girl should’ve brought a western bird trainer with her from Cornfield.”

Jocelyn snorted. “Sometimes I forget, dog, that something as grotesque as you came from the Westerlands.”

The Hound laughed, a terrible sight the way his teeth were exposed. “I’m not the worst to come out of them either.”

She narrowed her eyes at the bird. After a moment, she raised the golden flute to her lips again and blew, this time at a lower note. The bird flew to her shoulder, leaving behind a mess of blood and bone.

“Do dogs get along with eagles?” She wondered aloud.

The Hound shrugged. “I doubt it.”

She blew the flute again, a middle tone, and the bird flew to the Hound’s shoulder. He turned his head slightly to glance at it, but otherwise did not react.

“I’ve been thinking of taking up taxidermy.” Jocelyn said conversationally, “My lady mother says I need more hobbies.” 

The eagle’s head _snapped_ with only the lightest of sounds, no time for even a squawk. She had it promptly installed in her rooms, and assigned the Connington girl as her bedmate.

**Author's Note:**

> I do think that if Cersei had a daughter first she would've tried to have a son much sooner than the four year gap between Myrcella and Joffrey, but I didn't want to overcomplicate things. This is also why I didn't just switch the names around as I think would've actually happened. I've kept the kids' ages deliberately vague, but for reference in canon Myrcella is four years younger than Joffrey and one year older than Tommen.
> 
> I've been thinking of writing two similar works featuring the other two siblings, but I can't deny that there is much more I'd love to explore in terms of Cersei's direct relationship with a firstborn daughter. Four years is a long time for a new king with no male heir of his body, so the kind of pressure Cersei would've received from not only Tywin but the rest of the realm would've been very intense. There's no way that child wouldn't have felt that kind of resentment, not to mention the effects of Cersei and Robert's parenting in the first place. A royal boy can get away with a lot more than a girl can.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love some comments to hear what everyone thinks. Please be kind, this is just my interpretation of the scenario and I'd be happy to talk and explore more of it :)


End file.
